


Hurts in Special Places

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Brits2014, Gryles, M/M, Stymshaw - Freeform, having a wee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's seen the comments on Twitter, the sly suggestions about why he was actually late to the podium.</p><p>If only they were right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurts in Special Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noeon (noe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/gifts), [ad_libitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ad_libitum/gifts).



> This was written immediately post-Brits while details about both the event and the afterparties were coming out. Because of this, it may not line up with finalized canon or timelines for the night, but hey, I really wanted to write about Harry and Nick both being away from their tables during 1D's first award speech. So... :D
> 
> Much love especially to my lovely wife Noeon who enables me in this and every fandom (and who is alpha, beta, and muse) and to ginger_veela, who's responsible for getting me into Gryles in the first place. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, obviously, the usual RPS disclaimer: this never happened unless I'm incredibly prescient, in which case I will LOLOLOLOL forever. Nick and Harry are their own people with their own lives; I'm just borrowing their public personas to play with for a little bit. And finally, Matt Fincham, stay out of the Gryles tag. :)

Harry's lost track of which afterparty he's at now. He's certain it's late. They'd started at Mayfair, but that was hours ago. Somewhere along the way his boys have peeled away, one by one. He doesn't blame them; the last one to leave is Zayn, and that's only because Little Mix is performing in Houston and while it's nearly two a.m. in London, there's still time for Zayn to drop his cousin back at home before ringing Perrie after their opening set.

Sometimes, Harry will admit--but only to himself and only when he's three sheets to the wind like just now--he's rather jealous of Zayn. Perrie's brilliant, she really is, sweet and funny, and Harry's never seen Zayn so bloody happy. 

Harry wants to be happy. He's just not certain he knows how.

His glass is empty again, and Harry has no idea how that happened. He sets it down on the edge of the sidetable, catching it and pushing it back just before it tips off. "Sorry, sorry," he says to the bloke next to him on the sofa as he struggles to get up. He knows he should know him--he's someone in the industry who Simon's introduced to him once before and who'd pushed another drink on him before Harry'd sat himself--but Harry'll be fucked if he can remember his name. He gets a raised glass in return, vodka and tonic sloshing over the rim and onto the black leather of the sofa cushion.

Gem's gone too. It's a work night, and she's an early morning tomorrow; she'd kissed his cheek before climbing into one of the cars waiting outside the O2 and told him she'd ring him after his hangover subsided tomorrow. Harry should go home, but he's staying with Ben again, and he and Meredith have already left. Harry doesn't want to stumble in bladdered and bother them. At least that's what he's telling himself, and he knows, really, that's a bit of a lie. But the thing is, Harry's good at lying. To his managers, to the lads, to the world at large, to himself, even.

The crush of increasingly more pissed people is harder to navigate around the bar. Harry pushes his way through, stopping now and then to beam and nod his thanks to someone who's congratulated him. He catches the barkeep's eye. "Vodka gimlet," he says over the rumble of laughter and conversation around him. "Ketel. And more vodka, less lime, thanks." The barkeep nods and reaches for a bottle. 

Someone next to him jostles his arm, makes a joke about him needing a toilet, and Harry just smiles and laughs the way he's meant to. They don't really know, none of them do, even if a few of them suspect. He's seen the comments on Twitter, the sly suggestions about why he was actually late to the podium.

If only they were right. 

He hadn't meant to follow Nick outside. He'd honestly been looking for the toilets, but then he'd caught sight of that perfect quiff. Harry's never been able to stay away from Nick. Not really. He'd tried, the past few weeks. He'd even gone to L.A., hung out with Kendall to try to put Nick out of his mind. He liked her well enough, and she's a great girl, really, she is. But she wasn't Nicholas Grimshaw, was she? And that was the problem. 

The barkeep pushes the gimlet towards him, and Harry picks it up, lifting it in his direction. "Cheers." He takes a sip. The vodka's strong, and it almost chokes him for a moment. He's already far too drunk, he knows, but he wants to be drunker. He wants to forget. Wants to drink away his humiliation. His anger. Wants to forget that bitter burn of rejection once more.

Nick'd been kind about it. That's what made it worse. Nick is never cruel, not to Harry. He hadn't even been in December when they'd ended things. He'd just said _you deserve better than an aging DJ, Harold, so go out and find your bliss._ But he hadn't listened when Harry'd tried to tell him he _was_ Harry's bliss. That was the thing about Nick, really. Harry's never met anyone more insecure. Nick never believes he's wanted. Not for himself. And not by Harry. 

The shit of it is that Nick stays friends with his exes. Harry supposes he can count himself in that group now. In Nick's eyes, they've had their cooling off time, and Harry's moved on to a new girlfriend. What Nick doesn't know, what Harry'd tried to tell him tonight, standing in the chill outside of the O2, the breeze blowing the smoke from Nick's ciggy back into Harry's face, was that Harry wasn't over him and would never be over him at this rate.

Ironically, it'd been Kendall who'd pointed that out to Harry as he lay between her long tanned legs, his face pressed into her shoulder and her fingers carding lightly through his hair. She'd known about Nick; Harry'd told her he was in love with someone else after they'd fucked the first time. He'd thought it only fair she should know what she was getting into. It hadn't bothered her. Not much does, which is one reason he liked Kendall, but she'd told him gently that he was a bit too raw and too wounded for her at the moment. She wouldn't be good for him, she said, not right now, and she was right. So he'd found himself in Jamaica, sleeping in the lounge of the guesthouse Ben and Meredith were staying in and brooding morosely into his porridge each morning when Meredith squeezed his shoulder gently as she went for the kettle.

But Nick wouldn't listen. Instead he'd dropped the cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out with his perfectly polished brogue. "This isn't the time for this, Harold," he'd said, his voice quiet and a little rough. 

"It never is for you, is it?" Harry'd said, perhaps a bit more sharply than he'd intended, and he'd nearly kicked himself when he saw Nick's face go blank and smooth, the slightest bit of emotion slipping away. It'd taken Harry aback. He'd honestly thought things were getting better, thought that they'd had a moment to hope for, just yesterday, in a black cab outside of the Edition Hotel, flashes going off around them. Nick had grinned at Harry just showing up there and waiting for him, had taken him home to walk Puppy and curl up on the sofa in front of Nick's giant telly to watch the Kardashians, with Harry telling Nick all the family gossip and salacious backstory he'd got from Kendall. It'd been almost like old times, except when Harry crawled into bed with Nick, Nick hadn't rolled over and pressed himself against Harry's back, his hand drifting down to Harry's cock like it used to do. But still, Harry'd been there in Nick's bed again, and he'd smelled that musky-bright scent of Nick's cologne clinging to the pillows, and he'd thought maybe, just maybe, things could be reset, that they could go back to what they were, what Harry'd thought them to be. Friends. Lovers. Whatever.

Together.

Realising that the barkeep is watching him, Harry downs half his gimlet in one gulp, wincing at the burn of the vodka against his throat. He knows that blank face of Nick's too well, that politely cool Nick Grimshaw who'll be charming to your face and vicious behind your back. Christ only knows what he's saying to his friends tonight. _Their_ friends. He still has a few supporters in their circle; Pixie and Alexa had made that clear in L.A. over the holidays, Alexa saying in that particular arch tone of hers she was certain Nick was making a right cunt of himself. Harry hadn't been able to disagree. 

Another swallow of vodka, and Harry loosens the first button of his shirt. His collar feels tight and hot as he makes his way back through the throng. Perhaps he should go home after all. Ben'll stay up with him for a while, watch The Cornetto Trilogy with him again, both of them likely nodding off near the middle of _The World's End_ the way they did last time they tried to have a Simon Pegg marathon. 

He doesn't know how he made it through the rest of the Brits, doesn't really remember the end of the ceremony. He'd kept away from Nick, turning towards Niall when Nick went up to present and ignoring the hand Liam had held out to Nick. He doesn't think he'd have been able to keep the hurt off his face, otherwise, watching Nick kiss James like that in front of everyone. Niall'd just bumped his elbow and said softly, "You'll be all right, Haz."

"It's fine," Harry'd said with a shrug. "I'm fine." Niall'd just given him a long look, then nodded. Harry doesn't know if he'd actually believed him, but Niall hadn't brought it up again, so he thinks he might have. Still, the boys had circled around him as they were leaving with their bodyguards, Louis telling Paul beneath his breath to keep Harry away from the Radio One crowd in no uncertain words. Ian had waved at him as they crossed the plaza, and Harry'd nodded back, but he hadn't wanted to know which parties they'd be going to. It was hard enough seeing Nick laughing brightly in the centre of their group, head thrown back, long neck pale in the streetlights. 

Now here he is, alone and lonely in a crowd of distant acquaintances. Last year he'd been practically plastered to Nick's side, laughing with him, drinking with him. They'd gone home together, and Nick had shoved him up against the wall as soon as they'd stumbled inside the doorway of Nick's flat, and they'd kissed desperately, eagerly. All of Harry's heart had been poured into that kiss. Nick had never known that or, if he had, he'd never admitted it.

Harry finishes the drink. He wants another one, but he can't bear the people around him any longer. His eyes sting, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to smile at the woman who stops him near the door. He says the right things, laughs the right way, judging from her warm smile. He's fairly certain she wants to take him home, and for a moment he thinks about it, considers how much of an emotional release it would be to come inside her, the way it had been with Kendall, but that's not what he wants right now. It doesn't feel right, not when he's still thinking about the way Nick had touched him a year ago, the way Nick had pushed Harry onto his bed and sucked him until Harry was begging to come, the way Nick had slid between Harry's thighs, had slicked him up, had pushed into him slowly, so fucking slowly that Harry had bit his palm just to keep from crying out in pure, aching _want._ Nick had rocked against him, into him, had stroked Harry's prick hard and fast, and when Harry's spunk had splattered across Nick's hand, Nick had lifted it and licked it clean, his eyes fixed on Harry's face. 

It had been the best drunk sex of Harry's life. 

And when they'd rolled out of bed an hour later and staggered into Radio One, Harry's arse sore in the most brilliant way possible, Harry'd been certain that Nicholas Grimshaw was the bloody love of his life.

Evidently Nick hadn't felt the same way.

Harry gets into a black cab with a little help from one of the party staff. She's barely older than him and pretty, all pale blonde curls and English rose complexion. "Going home, love?" she asks cheerfully, and Harry almost says yes before something stops him. 

"No," he's surprised to hear himself say. "Jay-Z's party, do you know where it's at?" Pixie's supposed to be there, he know, and Alexa. He doesn't let himself hope about Nick.

She gives him a long look. "You sure about that?"

Harry fights to keep his annoyance at bay. "Quite, actually." He gives her an easy smile which seems to quell her judgment. 

"Fitzrovia, then." She leans forward and gives an address to the driver before looking back at Harry. "Might want to get a bit of coffee in you first," she says, lowering her voice so the paps around them don't hear. "If you're going to make it a long night."

"Thanks." Harry leans back as she closes the cab door on him. The driver's not overly chatty, thank God. Harry's not in the mood to talk. The cab rumbles through Charing Cross. Harry closes his eyes and leans back. He's too pissed to still be out by himself, but he doesn't care. Not tonight. 

He's almost asleep when the cab stops a quarter-hour later. He pays the fare, then stumbles out into a flash of pap cameras, and he tries not to look too completely shattered. He smiles and waves and poses briefly as he climbs up the stairs to the club entrance. The wiry, well dressed bloke at the door doesn't even consult his clipboard; he just waves Harry into the club. The party's still going strong here, with music pulsing through the crowded room. Harry can feel the beat in his blood, propelling him forward. He stops at the bar, orders a vodka sour this time. He drums his hands across the bartop, then turns around.

Into Nick.

They both still, and the music seems to fade away for a moment. 

"Hazza," Nick says finally. He's pissed, Harry can tell. Completely blotto. For a moment Nick sways, then he steadies himself. "Wouldn't have thought to see you here."

"Probably not." Harry picks up the glass the barkeep sets next to his elbow, trying his best to be nonchalant. He suspects he's failing spectacularly. "Figured I'd stop by to see Pix and Alexa." 

Nick's eyes narrow for a moment, then he shrugs. "Went off half an hour ago. I warned Pixie those shoes were going to kill her tonight."

"Oh," Harry says. He covers his disappointment with a sip of his drink. Nick's still looking at him. It's all Harry can do not to reach out, grab the bastard by the lapels and haul him in for a rough, loud, and very public snog. Harry looks away from Nick's mouth. He can feel his cheeks heat, and he lifts his glass to his mouth again.

"What are you actually doing here, Harold?" Nick asks finally.

Harry shrugs. He meets Nick's eyes. "Drinking." His gaze slides over to the dance floor. "Dancing. Maybe pulling, if I'm lucky."

Nick's arm blocks him from walking away. "You're legless."

"I'm perfectly fine, Nicholas," Harry says, pulling himself up in the most dignified manner he can manage having consumed as much alcohol as he has. He spoils it by saying, "And I haven't anywhere to go at the moment, so--"

Nick sighs and swears under his breath. He runs a hand through his quiff; it's a bit lank and limp now. Harry wants to smooth it back from Nick's face, wants to lean in and kiss him, anchor his fingers in Nick's hair and tug.

They stand together for a long moment, silent, the party swirling and moving around them in a shimmering, muted blur. 

"Come on, popstar," Nick says finally. "You can come home with me."

Harry almost says no. It's a terrible idea, and even in a haze of vodka he knows it. But Harry wants Nick, needs Nick, and there's no way he's fool enough to walk away now. Even if he only spends a few hours on Nick's sofa, wrapped in a blanket with Puppy curled next to him, that's still better than nothing at all. He's that pathetic, he realises, and it should make him ashamed. But it doesn't and he'll think about that more later.

Harry lets Nick lead him back out of the club, stumbling close when Nick takes him by the wrist like an errant child. None of the paps seem entirely surprised to see them together, or to see Harry leaving so soon after he arrived. Nick pushes Harry into a black cab, his face lit up by flashes, and when their driver pulls away from the kerb, Nick leans back against the seat with a sigh. 

"You're trouble, Harold. You know this, yes?"

All Harry can do is nod, eyes closed against the flashes of light. "Soz."

Nick reaches over and ruffles Harry's hair. "Pissed bastard. At least I'll get home in time to sleep a bit this year?"

Harry wants to tell Nick he won't, that he's going to push Nick over the back of the sofa and kiss his way down Nick's spine until he reaches the curve of Nick's arse, that he's going to smooth his hands over that perfect bum, drag his tongue through that deep crease--

"Harry." Nick's voice cuts through the fog of Harry's fantasies. 

He blinks, then looks at Nick. 

"Sleep," Nick says firmly but quietly. "That's all."

"Right," Harry says. He turns his face to the window, watches the dark blur of London pass by. His head's beginning to twinge already, and his eyes ache. He doesn't want any of this. Not any more. He wants a quiet life. A normal life. A life where he doesn't have to hide who he is or whom he loves from a world eager to uncover it. 

"I do," he murmurs.

Nick knocks his knuckles against the back of Harry's hand. "Do what?"

 _Love you_ is what Harry wants to say. Instead he just shrugs. Nick doesn't push it. 

They're silent the rest of the way to Primrose Hill. When the cab stops, Harry slides out, leaving Nick to pay. Nick brushes past him on the steps down to the flat. He opens the door and Puppy comes barrelling towards them. 

"Puppy should be walked," Nick says, and Harry nods. "You know where the guest toothbrushes are."

Harry goes into the bath while Nick takes Puppy outside. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face before wandering into Nick's bedroom. He takes a t-shirt and a pair of jersey shorts from the dresser and changes into them, then folds his clothes neatly and carries them out into the lounge. Nick comes in, snapping Puppy's lead off and hanging it beside the door.

"Hey," Harry says, rubbing a hand across his stomach. He's awkward again. He hates feeling like that around Nick. He wishes he could get over himself, could stop wanting Nick the way he does like an ache in his soul. He misses having Nick as his friend, and this is all his fault, he thinks. He's the only ex-whatever Nick's been this uncomfortable around. He's fucked it all up and he doesn't even know how.

Nick just looks at him. Puppy runs to Harry, jumping up, her paws on Harry's knees. He reaches down and rubs the back of her ear. She barks, and her tail beats against Harry's leg. "She misses you," Nick says after a moment.

"Does she now?" Harry drops down to one knee and runs his hand along Puppy's belly. She squirms and flops onto her back, legs waving in the air. 

Nick snorts. "Little cow." 

Harry glances up at him. "She's not!"

There's a long silence, then Nick turns away. "I need to sleep." He glances over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

Something breaks open in Harry's chest. He's not going to be exiled to the sofa after all. He stands up and follows Nick into the bedroom, Puppy at his heels. "Can I come in with you tomorrow?" he asks.

Nick hangs up his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Why?"

"I don't know." Harry leans against the doorframe, watching Nick pull his black t-shirt over his head. A shiver goes through him at the sight of Nick's chest. He remembers all too well how it feels against his own. "I thought it might be nice. You know. Make a tradition of it. Do our thing."

"Right." Nick's trousers hit the floor and he steps out of them, bending down to pick them up and drape them over a hanger. He looks back at Harry. "Not the best idea, is it?"

"Maybe not." Harry licks his bottom lip and juts his jaw just a little. "But I want to."

Nick pulls a pair of pyjama pants from the dresser. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs again. "Harry…." He trails off and just looks at Harry. "I can't." 

Harry nods, and Nick walks into the bath, shutting the door behind him. Harry sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his jaw. Puppy quirks her head at him, then jumps up beside him. He scratches beneath her chin. The toilet flushes, then Nick turns on the sink. It'll take him at least ten minutes to brush his teeth, then wash his face and slather on three different moisturizers. Nick's terrified of aging. Harry's never understood that; he thinks Nick always looks incredible. 

Puppy squirms and Harry stands up, moving around to the side of the bed he's always thought of as his. Maybe he's been wrong about that too. He slips under the duvet and pulls it up to his chin and closes his eyes, letting himself drift along the edges of sleep, letting his thoughts carry him towards Nick.

When the mattress dips, Harry opens his eyes and everything spins a little. The room's dark, and Harry can only just make out Nick beside him in the faint light from the bedroom window. 

"Hey," he says. He knows what he has to do now. 

Nick laughs softly. "Hey."

Harry rolls towards him. He can see the tip of Nick's nose. Somehow the dark makes this easier. "You're wrong, you know. About us."

"Am I?" Nick turns his head towards Harry. His breath smells minty. "How so?"

"I know what I want," Harry says. He draws in a slow, even breath, steadying his nerves. "I'm twenty--" He cuts off Nick's scoff. "I don't care what you think; I'm not a kid. And I know I want you. It's too much trouble to live without you."

Nick doesn't say anything. Harry waits, and his heart thuds unevenly against his chest. Finally he says, "Nick" with all the want and longing in his heart twisting through that one syllable.

"Jesus." The bed shifts again as Nick rolls over. Harry can feel Nick's fingers graze across his cheek. "Harold, you are an absolute idiot."

Harry can't move. He's too afraid to, too afraid Nick's hand will drop away from his face. When it does, the ache inside him is nearly unbearable. "Why?" he asks at last. "Everything was so good and then you just--"

"I can't," Nick says quietly. "Not when we can't keep anything quiet. The moment we're out together, the speculation starts again. Yesterday--"

"What if I don't want to keep it quiet?" Harry sits up, suddenly annoyed. "You're the one who's always pressuring us to discreet--"

"For your bloody career," Nick says sharply. He pushes himself up against the pillows. "Do you know what it would do to you--to the band--if people found out you were bent? You need your fans, Hazza. Can't be a proper popstar without them."

Harry looks at him. "That's a shit excuse, Nicholas, and you know it."

Nick glances away. He rubs his hands over his face. "Harry. For fuck's sake."

"I think Pix is right," Harry says slowly. "I think you're too fucking scared to be in a relationship with me." Nick makes a noise of protest, but Harry ignores him. "I think you're too much of a coward to admit what you want--"

Harry finds himself pressed against the mattress, Nick leaning over him. "Pixie can be a cow," Nick says, but his eyes are bright. Harry breathes in. 

"What do you want? What do you really want?" Harry asks, faintly aware that he sounds like a Spice Girl. "Because I want you. I want you inside me, I want you sucking me, I want you coming all over me, Nick--"

He's cut off with a fierce kiss, rough and angry at first, and then it slows, lingers, Nick's tongue flicking at Harry's lips, pressing into Harry's mouth, and _fuck_ , Harry thinks, as his mouth opens and his hands slide over Nick's t-shirt and down his back. 

"Please," Harry says against Nick's mouth and then Nick's over him, straddling Harry's hips, and Harry's pushing at Nick's t-shirt, helping Nick pull it over his head so that Harry's palms can smooth down Nick's chest, thumbnails scraping over Nick's nipples in just that perfect way that Harry knows Nick loves. 

"This is going to be tragic, popstar," Nick murmurs, his breathing already quickened. 

Harry doesn't disagree. It might very well end in tears; Nick's not an easy person, and Harry knows damned well he's not uncomplicated himself. Instead of worrying, he leans up and kisses Nick again, letting one hand curl around the nape of Nick's neck, holding him into the kiss, licking and biting at Nick's lips until Nick groans and rocks his hips against Harry's. 

Harry knows he's not up for as much as he'd like. He's too drunk, and so is Nick. 

Still, it feels as if something's been set on fire inside of him, and he pushes up, twisting so that he can jerk his own t-shirt off, throwing it over the side of the bed. Nick's already got his cock out, and when he reaches for the waist of Harry's shorts, Harry swears and twists his hands in the sheets, arching up as Nick pulls his prick free. 

There's lube in the sidetable, and Harry ruts up against Nick as Nick fumbles for it, uncapping the bottle and pouring a bit in his palm before dropping it on the floor. Puppy whines, and Nick laughs. "Get out from under the bed, Puppy," he says, as his slick hand slides over Harry's stiff cock. It's all Harry can do not to buck his hips up greedily. 

Harry loves the way Nick touches him, loves the way Nick presses their balls together, slides their pricks against one another. Nick leans in to nip at Harry's mouth in slow, lazy kisses that make Harry's entire body tremble. He digs his fingers into Nick's shoulder. "Nick," he says. Nick's hand moves faster, fingers twisting over both their cocks, and Harry presses his feet into the mattress, rocking his hips into each slide of Nick's fist against his heated skin. 

Nick's face is flushed, his mouth slightly slack. He ruts against Harry, and Harry can see the muscles in Nick's shoulders tighten and flex. Harry's hands slide down Nick's back, over his arse, one finger pressing between Nick's cheeks, against his hole. Nick shudders over Harry, and Harry grins, loving the way he can make Nick's body respond. He spreads his thighs wider, pressing harder into Nick's hand, and he can feel the frisson start deep inside of him, his body tensing, aching, _needing._

Harry comes with a sharp cry, and his body arches, spunk splattering between them both. Nick doesn't stop, doesn't pause. It's all Harry can do to hold on to Nick as he rocks his cock against Harry's hip, grunting and gasping. 

And then he stills, his head thrown back, his eyelids fluttering, and Harry can feel Nick come on him, hot and wet and sticky, before Nick collapses, burying his face against Harry's throat. 

Neither of them move for a moment. Harry loves the weight of Nick on him, pushing his legs apart, pressing against his spent prick. Then Nick huffs against Harry's ear, his breath ruffling Harry's hair. "That was not how I wanted tonight to go."

Harry grins into Nick's jaw. "It's exactly what I wanted."

Nick rolls off him and pushes himself off the bed, not bothering to pull up his pyjama pants. "You're terrible." He disappears into the bath, Puppy slinking behind him. Harry hears the splash of water into the sink, then Nick comes back with a damp flannel, his own stomach slightly wet and his pyjamas back in place. He tosses the flannel at Harry as he crawls back into bed. 

The flannel's warm; it feels brilliant against Harry's skin. He wipes himself clean, then folds the flannel and sets it aside. He picks up the lube from the floor and places it next to the flannel. When he rolls back over, Nick's watching him. "What?"

"I do," Nick says. "Want you."

Harry settles back on the pillows. He feels oddly light despite the weird buzzing sensation in his skull. "I know." Puppy jumps back on the bed, circling around beside Harry until she's scrunched the duvet up enough to flop down beside him with a snuffle and a whine. She licks Harry's arm before she presses her nose back into her paw. Harry tugs lightly at her ear, then strokes down her side. 

"Do you now?" Nick sounds amused. 

Harry shifts closer. He puts his head on Nick's shoulder. "Well, I didn't know earlier," he amends. "But I do now. I think." He's not entirely certain, though. He looks up at Nick. "Don't you?"

"Sometimes you're utterly confusing." Nick smoothes back Harry's hair. His thumb strokes across Harry's forehead. "Not to mention frustrating. And stubborn. And thick."

"Hey," Harry says, but he doesn't think Nick means it. "Are you going to stop being a twat?"

"In general, probably not." Nick shifts, curling up behind Harry and draping an arm over him. "About us, however, perhaps?"

Harry threads his fingers through Nick's and lifts them to his mouth. He kisses them lightly. "That's a start, then." 

Nick hmms against Harry's shoulder. "Go to sleep, Harry."

"Did you set an alarm?" 

"Two," Nick says. "On my phone. Finchy will never forgive me if I'm late. Especially if he and Fiona are unconscious again." Nick pauses. "Do you reckon he's passed out somewhere with Niall?"

"No." Harry tries to keep the amusement out of his voice. Puppy's tail thumps against the mattress.

"Pity. It'd be brilliant for our numbers. I'm thinking everyone's a bit bored by you and me now. We're fit for wrapping fish." 

"I'm fairly certain we could stir the pot," Harry says fondly. "If it's not enough attention for you, I mean."

Harry can feel Nick yawn against his skin as his body relaxes. He's tired himself, and he settles back against Nick, listening to Nick's breathing even out. 

It's been a long night. A good night, he thinks. His fingers curl around Nick's and he squeezes them gently. He doesn't want to let go. 

"Sleep, Hazza," Nick mumbles, and Harry smiles. 

Finally, he does.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [quixoticfemme](http://quixoticfemme.tumblr.com/).


End file.
